8i 



LOCH LEVEN 



I HAD a friend once, an angler, who in winter was 

 fond of another sport. He liked to cast his louts 

 into the green baize pond at Monte Carlo, and, 

 on the whole, he was generally ' broken.' He 

 seldom landed the golden fish of the old man's 

 dream in Theocritus. When the croupier had 

 gaffed all his money he would repent and say, 

 ' Now, that would have kept me at Loch Leven 

 for a fortnight.' One used to wonder whether a 

 fortnight of Loch Leven was worth an afternoon 

 of the pleasure of losing at Monte Carlo. The 

 loch has a name for being cockneyfied, beset by 

 whole fleets of competitive anglers from various 

 angling clubs in Scotland. That men should 

 competitively angle shows, indeed, a great want 

 of true angling sentiment. To fish in a crowd 

 is odious, to work hard for prizes of flasks and 



G 



